  IT was not as a mere relic-hunter, that I crossed the threshold of Daniel Webster's home in Marshfield. As a Bostonian, long years ago, I had been spell-bound by those wondrous eyes, and that irresistible eloquence which so seldom failed to magnetize. As to the mistaken words which, had he lived till now, I firmly believe he would have grievingly wished unsaid, and which have palsied many hands that would have been raised over that roof in blessing, I have nothing to say now. As far as the East is from the West, so far do I differ with him on that point. But all these thoughts vanished, and the old Boston magnetism moved me, as I stood in that beautiful library, which, more than any other room of that lovely home, his presence seemed to fill and pervade. The beautiful sunlight streamed in upon the favorite books he loved so well, upon the favorite chair and table, upon the thousand and one tributes of love and admiration from across the sea, and from nearer home, which are still carefully treasured. There only, after all these years, could I really "make him dead." My last sight of him was on a public occasion in Boston, sitting in a barouche, with that grand massive head uncovered, Now, all about his home in Marshfield, are family pictures of the little children he tenderly loved. And what beautiful children they are! or were, for many of their names are now recorded on marble beside his own. And above the picture of him—as if such a head as his could ever be faithfully reproduced!—were his hat and stick. I stood looking at them, and wondering if, when he used to sit there he ever thought of that—if when resting in that peaceful spot, with bloom and brightness about him, weary with the ceaseless strife, and with the din of life, shut out, for a time at least, he ever longed to lay them aside for ever—thus! In every house, the individuality of it is that which interests us most. These household gods all had their little story; all, too, spoke of taste and refinement and culture, and love of the beautiful in form, color, and arrangement. It almost seemed an impertinence to move about from room to room, and gaze at them; and, I think, had it not been that one of the family recognized and welcomed me as a remembered Bostonian, I should have felt very much like an inexcusable intruder there. All honor to Daniel Webster for having had painted, and hung up in a conspicuous place in his house, the portrait of his black cook. It is the most The simple majesty of Daniel Webster's tomb is very impressive. It is fit that it should be there, at Marshfield, within sound of the restless sea—restless as his spirit. For inscription—only the name and date, and those memorable words of his on Immortality. There are no mysteries to him now. Some men—can anybody tell us why?—always gravitate downward in their male friendships. Their boon-companion is sure to be one destitute of everything that would seem to constitute an equality. Now what can be the reason of this? Is it because such persons need to have their self-respect constantly bolstered up by the flattery of parasites? Whatever the motive may be, the result is certain deterioration. Not, on the other hand, that it is not best to meet with, and know all sorts of persons; but invariably to choose inferiority, for a bosom-friend, argues a flaw, and a serious one, somewhere. |
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